Chapter 4: Si vic pacem (consolidation)
by Darkpenn
Summary: This is a consolidation of the eight parts of the collection John Wick: Chapter 4: Si vic pacem


**John Wick, Chapter 4: ****_Si vic pacem_**

_Author's note: This consolidates the eight parts of the series John Wick: Chapter 4._

**1.****In nomine patris**

1

The Adjudicator walked into Administration, and up to the desk of Operator, Control. She took a disk from her pocket and began to slide it across the countertop.

"Don't bother," said OC. "I know who you are and I've been expecting you." She took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled the plume of smoke at the Adjudicator. "Seems you've had a busy week," she said.

"I have had busier," said the Adjudicator, ignoring the smoke and returning the disk to her pocket. She placed her black leather gloves on the countertop. She looked around at the office. Ancient phones, past-gen computers, ledgers and filing cabinets, even a chalkboard. Tended to by tattooed women in sleeveless shirts and tight skirts. She wondered how it could possibly function. And yet somehow, _somehow_, this was the most efficient Administration under the Table. Never a leak, never a question.

"And if you have been expecting me you will know that I have come to ensure that the file on John Wick is properly closed, to end my business here," she said.

OC nodded, and gestured to a young woman. "Elizabeth," said OC. "Show our … visitor … the current file."

Elizabeth had the file in her hand. "You should understand that this is just the latest part," she said. "The complete file takes up an entire cabinet. I had to create a separate index for the collection." She put the file on the countertop.

"We like to keep things in order," said OC, in a tone that said 'unlike some people'. She blew a smoke ring at the Adjudicator.

"Then your order should show that the … colourful … career of Mr Wick has come to an end," said the Adjudicator. She leafed through the file. "All this over a puppy," she said.

"Not really," said Elizabeth.

"Elizabeth is something of a Wick expert," said OC.

The Adjudicator raised a manicured eyebrow, surprised that anyone would disagree with her. But she let it go. "Well," she said. "Now she's an expert in nothing." She flipped through the file to the most recent entry.

OC held up a stamp. It said DECEASED.

"Since you witnessed him being shot, perhaps you would like to do the honours," she said.

"And the signature," added Elizabeth.

"The … signature?" said the Adjudicator.

"As final confirmation that he is, well, dead," said OC. "Necessary in a case like this. So if the High Table ever wants to check back, they know exactly who to hold accountable." She offered the Adjudicator a pen.

"Since you are certain about it," said Elizabeth, "there should be no problem with confirmation."

The Adjudicator hesitated. "This … this is a rather irregular procedure," she said. "Surely the confirmation signature should be done by Operator, Control."

"I'm not the one who saw the body," said OC. "You _did_ see the body, didn't you?"

"I … I saw him shot. Several times."

"Well, that settles it, then. But just as a matter of curiosity, Elizabeth, how many times has Mister Wick been shot in the course of his career?"

"117," said Elizabeth.

"117?" said OC. "Damn, that is a lot. By the way, Adjudicator, who pulled the trigger? I understand that it was Winston, manager of the Continental, is that right?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I have to know who to send fifteen million dollars to. Since you are sure Mr Wick is dead."

The Adjudicator winced. She did not like the idea of Winston collecting the bounty, after all the trouble he had caused her. This whole business had become extremely expensive to the High Table. Platoons of hi-tech soldiers were not cheap, not to mention the money paid in advance to Zero. But Winston had indeed killed Wick. Had he not?

"Do what you will," she said.

"As soon as you stamp and sign." OC again offered the pen.

The Adjudicator took it. She hesitated once more. _I saw him shot_, she thought. _I saw him go over the edge. Could I be mistaken? No, of course not. I am an Adjudicator of the High Table. I do not make mistakes._

She applied the stamp and then signed.

"It is official," she said. "John Wick is dead. The paperwork says so."

"Must be right then," said Elizabeth, taking the file.

"So you can close the file and have done with it," said the Adjudicator.

"Maybe not just yet," said Elizabeth.

"For … procedural … reasons," said OC. "In case there are … consequences. I'm sure you understand."

"He is dead," said the Adjudicator.

"As you say," said OC. "After all, you saw him bleeding from being shot. Repeatedly. At close range. Must have made something of a mess."

The Adjudicator had a sudden flash of memory. Wick had been shot and had then staggered backward. He had cried out: _"Winston!"_

But there had not been any blood.

Then he had gone over the edge.

But there had not been a body.

Elizabeth was looking at the stamp and the signature on the file.

"Accountability," she said, "is a wonderful thing."

The Adjudicator stared at her. "Indeed," she said. She picked up her gloves, turned, and strutted out.

OC blew a final column of smoke after her. "A person who works at being an asshole," she said. "I wonder what she looks like naked." She glanced at Elizabeth. "117, eh? Is that true?"

"It is."

"Huh. How about that."

2

"I have been waiting a long time to do this," said Earl. He ran his fingertip along the edge of the knife. "And I intend to enjoy it."

"Just don't enjoy it too much," said John Wick. Not that he could do much about it. Even leaning back in the ancient, padded seat in a back room of the King's headquarters in the Bowery made every part of his body hurt.

Earl applied the lather. "Don't worry, I have only killed a few people with this," he said. "None of them accidentally. Trust me, when I get through you'll feel like a new man."

"It might take more than a shave and a haircut," said Wick.

Earl began to scrape the accumulation of growth from Wick's face.

The King entered, still leaning on his walking stick. "Ah, Mister Wick, I see that you are getting the full Earl treatment. Fortunate, as you have a visitor. Two visitors, in fact. Mister Wick, please try to not kill anyone. Remember you are in my home. Well, what passes for my home these days, as I have decided it is best to be under the Table's radar for a while."

The two visitors entered.

Winston. Charon.

Wick started, began to get up –

"I wouldn't do that," said Earl. He scraped the blade through the lather on Wick's throat.

"John, John, it's good to see you alive," said Winston.

"More or less," said Wick. "I fell off a twelve-story building because of you. After you had shot me."

"Pretended to shoot you," said Winston. "For the benefit of our charming Adjudicating friend. You don't think I would hand you a gun with real bullets and tell you that you could shoot me, do you?" He took a pistol from the briefcase he carried. It was the same one that he had when he first met Wick in the Administrative Lounge. The same gun he had used to shoot Wick on the roof of the hotel. 'Shoot'.

"For a very improvised plan, it played quite well," put in Charon. "We trusted that you would quickly get the idea."

"You could have at least put a mattress or something on the street," said Wick.

Winston chuckled. "Next time," he said. "But I am not here to give you a get-well card. I have something for you. Fifteen million dollars in untraceable bearer bonds. The bounty on your head. Courtesy of the High Table, passed along through Administration in our beloved city. It seems only fitting that you should have it."

He took a large envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the little table near the barber chair.

He said: "And there is this. An accompanying letter. It doesn't really say anything, but … tell me, do you notice anything odd about it?" He handed it to Wick.

Wick studied it. "It's typed," he said. "On a typewriter."

"Yes," said Winston. "Now who, I ask, uses typewriters in this day and age?"

"Just where is this Administration?" said the King.

"Nobody knows," said Winston. "There is no trace of them. Not so much as a digital fingerprint."

"Because they use typewriters," said Charon. "Very old communications systems. Unhackable technology. Not so much as a photocopier, probably."

"But they would know about the High Table," said Wick. "Where it meets, and when. It moves around, city to city. But there must be a piece of paper somewhere with the next place. So there is a reporting line."

"Ah," said Winston.

"If Administration does everything manually there must be a lot of people," said Wick.

"And it would have to be tightly organised, to have remained secret," said the King. "People from … dubious … backgrounds, I would think. People who can be controlled. People who have no qualms about blood on the floor, as long as it is neatly organised. They might be hard to spot. Unless you had eyes on every street corner. Which, as it happens, I do."

"Women," said Wick. "Women who have limited social connections."

"Ah," said Winston again. "In that case, this sounds like a job for a charming, handsome man."

"Yes," said the King. "Now where, within our conspiratorial little circle, do you think we could we find a charming, handsome man?"

They all looked at Charon.

3

Elizabeth was glad for the walk to the subway station. She had been working extra hours for the past week, clearing the backlog of cases caused by John Wick. Everything was now in order, all the files she was responsible for – T to Z – were closed. Even Zero's lengthy file had been stamped DECEASED and archived.

But not the Wick file. Even though the Adjudicator had stamped and signed it several days ago it remained resolutely open. Some things just refuse to die.

She mentally calculated, not for the first time, how much longer she would have to work at Administration. About four more years. She had already done six. She still believed that it was a good deal. Better then prison. She had just staggered through the first year of an eight-year jail term when a recruiter came to her with an offer of early parole. He had asked if she had office skills. If you count cooking the books to cover embezzling and fraud, she had replied.

He had laid out the conditions. You do what you're told, you say nothing about it to anyone, you don't have friends. Ten years, and it pays well. You break the Rules, you end up in the East River.

So she took the job. What the hell else was she going to do?

They had even given her a uniform: sleeveless blouse, pencil skirt, a carry-bag. When she was outside the office she was supposed to wear an overcoat to cover it, but today was a hot New York day. So she was carrying the coat, her bag on her shoulder. It was, after all, a nice day to be free. Relatively speaking.

"Excuse me, miss," said a deep, mellow voice.

She looked around. It was a tall black man, impeccably dressed. Glasses.

"Perhaps," he said. "you could tell me the way to the Museum of Modern Art."

She hesitated. The Rules said: no connections.

But this was just someone asking for directions. An attractive someone. The Rules didn't prevent you from giving directions to someone, did they?

She smiled. "Sure," she said. "You go down this street for two blocks and then turn left, go for another block and there it is."

Suddenly, her bag was snatched from her shoulder by someone running past. Homeless guy.

"Fuck!" she said, as the guy ran into an alley.

"I will get it," said the handsome fellow. In a moment he was running after the thief.

It was only about ten seconds before he came back, out of the alley. He was carrying the bag. He handed it to her.

"When he saw that someone was chasing him he threw it away and climbed over a fence," he said. "I do not think he had time to take anything but perhaps you should check."

She did. The only important thing was her Administration entry card, which was still there.

"That was good of you," she said. "I would be in trouble if I lost this."

"And thank you for the directions," he said. "Perhaps, miss, I could buy you a cup of coffee to mark our little adventure."

Elizabeth hesitated again. She looked at the guy. He was … _very_ … handsome.

But … the Rules …

Fuck, it was only a cup of coffee. The Rules didn't say anything about coffee, did they?

"Okay," she said.

4

Earl studied the screen of the laptop computer, checking that the tracking device that was now hidden in the lining of the woman's handbag was working. It was.

5

"She did not tell me anything," said Charon. "Which tells us much."

"Enough security to be intimidating," said Winston.

They were again in the King's headquarters. They were all watching Earl's laptop computer, as a red dot moved across a map of the city. It stopped.

"Well, how about that," said the King. "The Empire State Building."

"Elevator to the twelfth floor," said Earl. "Then up the stairs to the thirteenth floor. When she stopped for a few seconds just before she entered the stairwell, that was probably to use the reader there for the card Charon mentioned."

"So Administration is on the thirteenth floor but the elevator doesn't stop there," said Wick. "The twelfth floor has the security. If employees have to pass through it then all visitors would have to do so too."

"I know that you like the head-on assault but it's unlikely to be effective here, John," said Winston. "Something more along the lines of subterfuge is needed. I should say, if it isn't already clear, that I do not wish for the High Table to know that I am in any way associated with this. Until the time is right. The same goes for my trusted associate Mister Charon."

"And I am happy for them to believe that I am dead," said Wick. "Until the time is right."

"You mean you want some sort of disguise?" said Earl. "I can do that."

"Just don't go too crazy," said Wick.

"I can supply as many people as you need," said the King. "Winston, do you have a plan in mind?"

"Yes," said Winston. "And it involves typewriters."

6

The doors of the elevator of the twelfth floor slid open. Wick – in a Rastafarian-style wig, glasses, and colourful beret – Earl, and two others of the King's men stepped out. They were all wearing overalls and pushing trolleys with carboard boxes.

Wick looked around. Intimidating security was right: surveillance cameras and heavy-set men with automatic weapons.

Earl led them to the front counter. "Delivery of typewriters for the thirteenth floor," he said to the guard. "Damn, these things are hard to find. The boss told us to bring them here and someone would sign for it." He held out a sheaf of papers.

The guard behind the desk looked at his clipboard. "We don't have any notification of a delivery," he said.

"Well, that's just great," said Earl. "Fucking great, man. Either our paperwork people screwed up or yours did. Look, man, if we don't make this delivery we don't get paid. We need to be able to say we brought them here and dropped them off, okay? Can we just leave them here until it gets straightened out? You've got a storeroom or something, right? I mean, this company still uses typewriters, right? Fucking weird if you ask me but who cares as long as everyone gets paid, right? Which includes us. Honestly, man, we can't take them back to the store and say there was a snafu with the order. Boss would fire us, the guy's an asshole but a job's a job, you know what I mean? I bet your job isn't always a barrel of laughs either, am I right?"

The guard stared at Earl. Eventually, he said: "I suppose they can go in the storeroom for the time being."

"Great, you want us to take them through?" said Earl.

"No, our people will do it," said the guard. He gestured for some of his colleagues to take the trolleys away, which they did. He signed Earl's paper.

The four of them went to the elevator. Earl took a small device from his pocket. "About now they should be right in the middle of the office," he said. "So … " He pushed a button on the device.

Immediately, there was a series of explosions – not huge, as the point was only to set off the stun gas.

The four of them took gas masks from their pockets and put them on. They headed for the stairwell door, making their way through the fallen bodies and choking people. There was a card reader for the door. Wick took a small slab of plastic explosive with a detonator embedded in it from his pocket and put it on the lock. When it exploded the door flew open. Wick and Earl went up; the others stayed on the twelfth floor to add to the chaos. Wick removed the disguise with a sigh of relief.

The door to the thirteenth floor was not locked. They went through, drawing guns.

On the thirteenth floor everything was proceeding as normal, with no indication of the attack below. They looked around, and everyone looked back in surprise.

"Fuck, it's full of hot women," whispered Earl to Wick.

"Yes, yes it is," whispered Wick back. He said in a loud voice: "Who is in charge?"

"That would be me," said Operator, Control, raising her hand. "Is there something we can do for you?"

They went to her desk.

"I believe that you are the surprising, unkillable John Wick," said OC. She waved for Elizabeth to join them. She gestured for everyone else to get back to work.

"If you know that then you know that I will do whatever is needed to get what I want," he said. "Which in this case is information."

"Ah, information," said OC. "Always about information."

Elizabeth stepped forward. She said: "I am responsible for your file and there is something I would like to know. We have you down as having been shot 117 times. Is that correct?"

"Not entirely," said Wick. "There was a graze in Montreal. If you count that one it would be 118."

"Ah, Montreal," said Elizabeth. "I'll think about whether the file requires amendment. I am not sure a graze counts."

"You do not seem surprised to see me," said Wick to her.

"I am the keeper of your life story, Mister Wick. I doubt that there is anything you could do that would surprise me."

"Mister Wick, what is it that you want?" said OC.

"I want to know the location and timing of the next meeting of the High Table," he said. "Do you have that?"

"I do, but of course I cannot give it to you. I would be dead within a day." She nodded at a small camera perched in a corner of the ceiling.

"If you don't give it to me you will be dead within a minute," said Wick. He pointed his gun at her. "And so will everyone here."

"Elizabeth," said OC. "Do you think Mr Wick would do any such thing?"

She shook her head. "He has killed a remarkable number of people, true," she said. "But he has a code. He does not kill innocents. Which we are, in this case. Sort of."

OC looked at Wick and the gun in his hand. She opened a file on her desk and leafed through it. The John Wick file. "Are you bluffing, Mister Wick?" she said.

Wick lowered the gun. "Yeah, guess so," he said.

"Fuck, he might not do it but I'll shoot you just because you remind me of my fourth-grade teacher," said Earl, cocking his pistol. "Vicious bitch."

OC looked at him. "Yes, most probably," she said. "Tell me, Mister Wick, why do you want to know about the High Table?"

"I would like to pay them a visit," he said. "Balance some scales, close some books, that sort of thing. A chat. A serious chat. Retrieve something."

"You know that the High Table is the most protected organisation in the world, right?"

"Yes."

"And you still want to do it?"

"Yes."

OC considered. She opened her desk drawer, rummaged around a little, and extracted a cigarette. She lit it and exhaled a thin column of smoke.

"I can understand that you have loyalty to them," said Wick.

"That might not be the right word," she said. She shuffled through the file again.

"Not at all," said Elizabeth.

OC sighed. "Nevertheless, Mister Wick, I cannot give you what you want," she said. "Although I enjoy thinking about the consequences of your reappearance for a certain over-dressed bitch I know. She signed this file to make your death official. Do you want to see it?"

"Not really."

"I think you do, Mister Wick."

She turned the file to face him. She pointed to the Adjudicator's signature.

And there was another piece of paper there as well, small, hardly a scrap. With an address and a date.

"So now you are back from the dead, you can be on your way," said OC.

"I guess I can be," said Wick. "On my way." He holstered his gun.

"Hey, does this mean that I can't shoot anyone?" said Earl.

"It does," said Wick. "Sorry."

The two of them left Administration, collected their colleagues from the twelfth floor, and left the Empire State Building.

_London,_ thought Wick. _The next meeting of the High Table is in London. In five days._

**2.****Amico amicus**

1

Wick had always liked London, or at least liked it as much as he liked anywhere. He had been here with Helen once; they had fed the ducks in Hyde Park. It had been a warm day, not unlike this day.

He had considered staying at the London Continental, as he was no longer _excommunicado_ and no longer had a bounty on his head. But the move seemed ostentatiously bold, so instead he had booked a room in a small, civilian hotel recommended by Winston. He had used a false name.

He was a little surprised when the desk clerk said to him, when he arrived: "Mister Candle? There is a message for you."

Wick read the note.

_Marble Arch Tea-room, 3.00. Charon._

_PS. Your dog is well._

So Wick went to the Marble Arch Tea-room, arriving a little before 3.00. He ordered tea for two.

At exactly 3.00 another person sat down.

"John," he said.

"Cassian," said Wick.

"Are you working?" said Cassian. "Is that why you are in London?"

"Let's say … that I am working for myself."

Cassian nodded slowly. "As my brother Charon suggested," he said.

Wick said nothing. But he thought: _Brother. Well, it makes a sort of sense._

Cassian was silent for a long while. Then he said: "You present me with a dilemma, John. You killed my ward, and so I am obliged to kill you. But in New York you could have killed me on the train. All you had to do was pull the knife out and that would have been the end. You did not. So here I am."

"Still alive," said Wick. "And I am not sorry to see it."

The tea arrived. They sipped at it.

"There were … consequences … on the death of my ward," said Cassian. "I am no longer welcome at the High Table. So I have had to seek employment elsewhere. That I could at least do so is something else, I suppose, that I have to to thank you for. If Santino D'Antonio had taken his seat at the High Table I would surely be dead now."

Wick nodded. "Your new employment," he said. "I assume that this is why you are here now."

"It is. I will take you to my employer, who like you has a … certain amount of ill-feeling towards the High Table. He believes that you might be able to help each other."

They finished their tea and caught a cab to an expensive hotel. Cassian led Wick to a penthouse suite, and there was his new employer.

Akoni.

"Mister Wick, Mister Wick, it is a pleasure to meet you at last," he said, gesturing for Wick to take seat. "We were in Rome at the same time but our paths did not cross. You are well, I trust?"

"Can't complain," said Wick.

"Ah, good, good. And here we are in London. I love London. I come here to get away from my wives. They are a constant trouble to me. And I like to see the stage shows of Mister Andrew Lloyd Webber. Do you like _Cats_, Mr Wick?"

"I'm more of a dog person," said Wick.

Akoni stared at him. "I … see," he said. "Well, to business. I must thank you for ridding me of not just one but two members of the D'Antonio family. For that I would like to give you a sum of money. To show my appreciation."

"Please don't," said Wick. "I killed Gianna D'Antonio as a matter of obligation, and I have no desire to be reminded of it. I killed Santino D'Antonio because, well, he needed killing."

Akoni stared at him.

"I … see," he said again. "Mister Wick, do you know why I was in Rome?"

"To see _Il Fantasma dell'Opera_?" said Wick.

"To … ? Ah, I see, a joke. No, Mister Wick. It was to ask Gianna D'Antonio to cease her attempt to take over my organisation. Needless to say, I was not successful. She said she would proceed, which would turn me into nothing more than another of the High Table's employees. Then you stepped in. That caused a delay in the High Table's plan but not, I believe, for long. In fact, the reason I am in London is to speak at the meeting of the High Table to arrange a deal."

"The High Table," said Wick, "does not deal."

"Yes, I know. They merely tell you what they will give you, which is usually very little. I plan to ask to be allowed to continue as head of my organisation, under the Table. I do not rate my chances of success highly but I need to be able to say to my colleagues in Africa that I made the attempt."

He leaned back in his seat.

"Mister Wick," he said. "Do you know what the High Table is currently concerned with? Disruption. Crime is a business, much like other types of business, and the established players are always worried that newcomers will rise up and eventually snatch part of their business away. And then all of it. So the High Table is doing everything possible to prevent newcomers from growing too powerful. Newcomers in Africa, South America, Asia. The High Table seeks to absorb them and, if it cannot do that, it will destroy them.

"So you see I have every reason to want to see that your actions against the High Table, whatever they might be, are successful. Others in a similar position to myself have given me the authority to supply you with whatever resources you might need. Money? Men? I can give you an army."

"I do not need an army," said Wick.

Cassian stepped forward. "Then perhaps we can give you something that you might find useful," he said. He took a key-card from his pocket. "This will get you past the first level of security at the place where the High Table is meeting. And there is this."

He took a wooden box from a side table and opened it. A gun. "I understand that you like the Italians and the Austrians but perhaps this will be adequate for your needs," he said.

Glock seven millimetre. The most common handgun in the world. Robust, simple, effective. Nothing fancy about it.

Wick took it from the box and examined it. "Works for me," he said. Cassian handed him extra clips. And a card with a telephone number.

Wick turned to Akoni. "I thank you for your offer, and I will consider it," he said. "But my business with the High Table is personal. There is something I need to get back. After my work here is done, all I will want is to be left alone."

"Good luck with that," murmured Cassian.

2

Operator, Control had not heard the small, well-dressed man enter Administration, but there he was. He took a dark disk from his pocket.

"I am an Adjudicator," he said. "I speak on behalf of the High Table."

"Well, snaps to you," said OC, taking a drag on her cigarette. "What happened to the other one? The party girl with a bayonet up her ass? I liked her. She was a ton of fun."

"She no longer holds a position of authority under the Table. But while she did, she mentioned that this office holds an asset that we would like to utilise. Take her to Head Office for a short period."

"Uh-huh. And what asset would that be?"

"I believe that one of your people is a leading authority on a certain individual. A Mister John Wick."

OC smiled, as much as she ever did. She gestured for Elizabeth to join them.

"Elizabeth," she said. "It appears that the High Table wants you to tell them about John Wick. At Head Office."

Elizabeth stared at OC, and then at the Adjudicator.

"It is a great pity," said OC to the Adjudicator, "that I cannot spare her. She is essential to the efficient operation of this office."

Elizabeth stared again at OC, trying not to appear amazed.

The Adjudicator raised an eyebrow. "I speak on behalf of the High Table," he repeated.

"Yeah yeah, yada yada," said OC. "Perhaps, then, you can make her an offer that I might find acceptable."

The Adjudicator raised his other eyebrow. "Do you mean money?" he said.

"No," said OC. "I mean time. Perhaps if you were able to reduce the period remaining in her work contract by, say, four years, I might be persuaded to let her go. On a temporary transfer basis, you might say."

The Adjudicator removed his glasses and polished them. "It might be possible, in principle," he said. "But certainly not for four years. Two, at the most."

"Three."

"Hmm. Very well, three."

OC glanced at Elizabeth. Elizabeth, stunned by what was happening, could only nod.

"When do we leave?" said Elizabeth to the Adjudicator.

"As soon as you get your coat and bag, Miss Elizabeth," he said.

**3.****Alea iacta est**

1

_And just yesterday,_ thought Elizabeth,_ I was not much more than a glorified filing clerk._

The Adjudicator had not allowed her to go home to collect anything for the trip to London, saying that there would be clothes waiting for her at the hotel. Indeed, there were: expensive and understated, and in the right size. The only thing missing was a carry-bag, so she kept the one she always carried – a relief, in a way, to have something that provided an anchor before … all this … happened.

The hotel was the London Continental. She had often heard of the Continental chain, and the rule that no blood-spilling was allowed there. She remembered that part of the Wick file. It suddenly occurred to her that she might be staying at the Continental so, well, she would not be harmed. It was not a pleasant thought.

Now she was sitting in a castle – _a castle!_ – with the Adjudicator. This was where the meeting of the High Table was going to be, apparently. They were in a room decorated with tapestries and suits of armour, outside another room with an ornate door. It was just the two of them.

"Perhaps it's time I told you," said Elizabeth, "that I have no idea why I am here."

"You are here," he said, "to tell the Security Committee of the High Table about John Wick. They will ask questions and you will reply. Truthfully."

"Huh," said Elizabeth. "I don't suppose I could have done it by Skype?"

The Adjudicator gave something that might, had it come from someone that wasn't him, a sigh. "And I should tell you," he said, "that the Committee has no sense of humour at all. Neither do I."

"I'll try to remember that," she said. "By the way, when you say that I should answer truthfully, do you mean that I should tell the actual truth, as I know it? Or what I think they want to hear?"

"Same thing."

_In theory,_ thought Elizabeth. _In theory._

"What is this Committee about?" she said.

"They are the key people of the High Table, aside from the Elder, who will chair the full meeting. They will compile a report for the meeting of the full Table in a few days."

A man came out of the other room and nodded for them to enter. He took Elizabeth's bag from her.

The Committee was five people, three men and two women, seated at a long table. One of them was in a wheelchair, one leg in a cast.

The Adjudicator gestured for Elizabeth to take the bare wooden chair facing the Committee. She did so, realising that she was shaking slightly. It was like her first day in prison. She had no idea what was going to happen but it was not going to be good.

There was a long silence. Then one of them said: "Tell us, why is Mister Wick still alive?"

Elizabeth cleared her throat. She hoped her voice would not tremble. "There are several reasons," she said. "The first is that he is one tough motherfucker. Very high level of skill in both killing and surviving. You might say he has a gift. Some people might have a gift for, I don't know, baseball or something. They are just naturally good at it, somehow attuned to how the game works. John Wick is naturally gifted at doing … what he does.

"Second, he has some friends. Not many, but a few. There are others who owe him a debt of some sort. They become allies. Even people who are dishonest, vicious thugs will pay back a debt that they owe him. Not out of fear, I think. Because he has some sense of honour. He does not kill for pleasure and he does not kill innocents. That sets him apart from the crowd.

"The third reason is a bit hard to explain. You see, he was married, and he managed to get out of the killing business. The woman died quite suddenly, of natural causes. I think that he wants to continue living as a way of honouring her memory. It's a powerful incentive."

The Committee members spoke softly amongst themselves for a few moments. Then one of them said: "The High Table is not without its enemies, although they are scattered and weak. They might be looking for a leader. Could that be him?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "He is not a leader," she said. "Leadership generally requires compromises, and he doesn't do that. He is a man of action, not words." She took a deep breath, and said: "But … he might be something worse than a leader."

"Worse?"

"I mean that he could be a symbol. Of … well, I suppose the word would be resistance."

One of the other Committee members said: "But he is just one man. One man. That is all."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Yes," she said. "One man."

"But he would not dare attack the High Table, or any of its members. He would not dare."

"Why not?"

"Because … because … he … he would not. No-one ever has. And … and … we have many guards."

Elizabeth shrugged again. "He has never failed an assignment," she said. "Never. No matter how many guards there are, how many soldiers. He will find a way. And now he is working entirely for himself. So he is without any sort of constraint."

The Committee members were silent. Elizabeth noticed that the face of one of them had gone pale. The hands of another were trembling.

_They're scared,_ she thought. _The great and mighty High Table, ready to shit bricks._

The man in the wheelchair said: "How will he come? Does he have a regular strategy? Will he come storming through the front door or will he come silently through the back, in disguise?"

Elizabeth adjusted her glasses as she considered. "In the past he has used many different strategies," she said. "It depends on the circumstances. He knows that he is not bullet-proof so he will not confront a large number of soldiers if he can avoid it. And he is patient. He always waits for the right moment."

A dark-skinned waiter who had been standing in the corner came over and set up a small table next to her, with a glass of water. She drank it down in a moment. The waiter brought her another.

The woman whose hands had been trembling said: "We … we … I think we should double the security. More guards."

"The usual contingent is already deployed here," said the man in the wheelchair.

"Then we should get more. From somewhere. I am sure there would be many people in London willing to do it. Pay as much as is needed."

Several of the others nodded. "As many as possible," said one.

The man in the wheelchair looked at Elizabeth. "Your views?" he said.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to have more boots on the ground," she said. "But have you considered deferring the meeting? Just … not having it?"

"That would make us look very weak. Like we were running away. Is that what you are suggesting?"

"I suppose you could look at it that way."

"It is something to consider," said one of the Committee.

"A … deferral," said another. "We could say … we could say that, er, perhaps we could say that we decided to defer the meeting until the new Camorra representative is chosen."

_Excuses,_ thought Elizabeth. _They're looking for an excuse to cover their fear._

"There will be no deferral," said the man in the wheelchair. "The meeting will proceed as planned. This is the High Table."

One of the members whispered something to the others. Elizabeth thought she heard the word 'helicopter' mentioned. The others nodded.

Four of the Committee members got up and left the room. The man in the wheelchair gestured for Elizabeth and the Adjudicator to join him.

"Your information has been useful, Miss … I am sorry, I do not know your name," he said.

"Elizabeth is fine," said Elizabeth.

"Elizabeth, then. I am Berrada, by the way."

"Ah. Of Casablanca. I made a note in the Wick file about your getting shot. And bitten."

"Yes, that was not a good day. When I am back on my feet I will organise for Sophia to be hunted down and brought before me. Elizabeth, I understand that you encountered Mister Wick personally a little while ago. In New York, in Administration. I saw the footage. Tell me, do you happen to know how Mister Wick discovered the location of the High Table meeting?"

"Me?" said Elizabeth. "Why should I know?" Not a no, exactly.

"And do you happen to know how Mister Wick located Administration? It is a closely guarded secret, after all."

"No, I don't know."

"Well, perhaps this will enlighten you."

The man who had taken Elizabeth's bag came over. He put it on the table, open. She noticed now that there was a small tear in the lining. The man tore it further, and pointed to a small disk hidden inside.

"That," said Berrada, "is a homing device. The battery is dead now, but it was most likely how Mister Wick and his associates knew the location of Administration. It was found by the metal detector at the door, when you entered this castle."

Elizabeth gasped. "But … how? How did it … goddamn, it was that guy! I knew he was too handsome to be true! But, believe me, I didn't know it was there!"

"I believe you," said Berrada. "If you had known you would have disposed of it as soon as it had done its job. Nevertheless, that Mister Wick's associates were able to plant it constitutes a terrible breach of trust on your part. An abrogation of the Rules. For that, there must be a penalty. That will be something for the High Table to decide." He gestured to the Adjudicator. "Put her in the room next to … our other guest," he said.

2

"What," said Wick, "can you tell me about St Blaine Castle?"

"I can tell you everything," said Forsythe Page-Gorman of the Royal Historical Society, Castles and Landmarks Department. "I have written papers on it. Would you like to see my slide-show? What do you want to know, that you are paying me such an exorbitant amount of money for?"

"Let us say, hypothetically, that I wanted to get in there, and the people inside wanted to keep me out. How might I get in? Is there a secret entrance or something?"

Page-Gorman adjusted his glasses. He pulled out several large architectural drawings from a rack and spread them over his desk. "Dear boy," he said. "St Blaine Castle was designed for exactly the purpose of keeping unwanted guests out. It has done that job for centuries. There is a surrounding wall and the three gates are set up so they can be heavily guarded, with views in every direction. The castle is still essentially the same construction, although I understand that the owners have added a range of security devices, and of course the helipads. That is why the government often rents it for international conferences on terrorism and the like. And there are no trees or anything that could provide cover within shooting range. I do not know who is currently renting it but I must say that they have chosen the most secure place in the UK."

Wick studied the drawings. After a long time he pointed to something on one of the blueprints. "What is this?" he said. "A closet or something? If it is, it's in an odd place."

Page-Gorman took a magnifying glass from a drawer and looked. "Ah," he said. "Well-spotted, Mister Anderson. That is a priest's hole. Not uncommon in places of this vintage. You see, during the religious wars that wracked the country for many years priests would often hold services in the castle chapel. But if the soldiers of the opposing faith showed up they had to have somewhere to hide. The door was built into the wall, and there is a catch just above, on the lintel, that opens it. But the last person who tried to hide there was found and burned at the stake. They played it tough in those days. And even if you were able to hide there it still doesn't solve the problem of how to get into the castle in the first place."

"No, it doesn't," said Wick. "But it's a start."

**4\. Facio ut facias**

1

"This man," said Akoni, "is a cousin of a friend of the brother of my second wife. He came to this country many years ago and now has a job as a waiter with the firm that does the catering for events at St Blaine Castle. Including the forthcoming one. He says he has something to tell us. What would that be, Kambili?"

"They will kill me if I say anything," said Kambili, who was sweating profusely.

"Oh, don't worry about that, I will kill you," said Akoni. "Did I mention that my second wife is my least favourite one? I will simply tell her that I was cleaning a gun when it went off, and you happened to be in the way of the several bullets that hit you. Or you could just take the money I have offered. It would be enough for you to buy a wife of your own."

Kambili swallowed. "Alright," he said. "I was in the room when some members of the High Table were talking to an American woman. About a man. A man called Wick. She was some sort of expert, I think."

"Ah," said Wick. "Was she slim, with black hair, and glasses?"

Kambili nodded. "I gave her some water," he said. "She seemed to know a great deal."

"Huh," said Cassian to Wick. "You know her?"

"We have met, briefly," said Wick. "She keeps the Wick file at Administration in New York. Clever woman, I think. She was the one that your brother put the bug on so we could find the place."

Akoni said to Kambili: "It is interesting about this woman but hardly enough to justify the money I am paying. What else to do you have?"

"They … they said they would be hiring more people," said Kambili. "More guards. Many. From London. For protection."

Akoni nodded. He handed Kambili a wad of bills. "May I suggest," he said, "that you get only one wife. Two or more is terrible trouble."

Kambili took the money and left, hurriedly.

"Useful to have an ear inside," said Akoni. "But they watch the catering firm too carefully to be able to get in posing as a waiter or cook. When I attend the High Table meeting to put my case, they will also check anyone with me. I cannot even have a bodyguard in the room, I am told."

"And that they are hiring more guards is not good news," said Cassian. "They will have every freelance gun in London. Not good news at all."

"Depends on how you look at it," said Wick.

2

They had locked Elizabeth in a bare little room, probably once a servant's room. Not a cell, but not much better. She sat there for a few hours, wondering how her life had reached this point, and then a man came and unlocked the door. He said there was food in another room, and took her to it.

There was another person, a woman with cropped hair, sitting at the little table. Elizabeth sat down and looked at the meal: bread, some sausage, some rice, water. She looked at the other woman; it took her a few moments to recognise her.

"Last time I saw you," said Elizabeth, "you were playing Queen Bitch, Ms Ex-Adjudicator. I see you have lost the high-fashion rig."

"Some things change," said the woman, as they began to eat. "Some things don't. You, for example, are still an insufferable little twat. I suppose I should ask why you are here, but actually I don't care."

"And I have no interest in telling you. I get that the High Table was not happy with you being so totally, completely, hilariously wrong about the death of John Wick. But why are you still alive?"

"There are procedures to go through. The High Table will discuss my case and make a decision about the exact nature of my termination. I do not expect that my demise will not be quick or neat. You, on the other hand, will probably be fortunate enough to get a bullet in the neck, since you are hardly worth worrying about."

"Lucky me. I suppose, since we are going to be spending our last hours together, you may as well tell me your name. I can't keep calling you Ms Ex-Adjudicator."

Ms Ex-Adjudicator hesitated. "My … name?" she said.

"Yes, you have an actual name, don't you?"

"Of course. It's just … well, I don't usually tell anyone."

"What, is it that bad?"

"It is."

"Tell me anyway."

Ms Ex-Adjudicator drew a breath. "I may as well, since we are about to die," she said. "It's … Trixie."

Elizabeth burst into laughter.

"And this is why I don't tell anyone," said Trixie.

"True, it doesn't exactly suggest threat and authority," said Elizabeth, wiping her eyes. "Well, Trixie, let me show you something."

She took the clip from her hair, allowing it to fall. Holding it so the two guards in the corner could not see, she showed the clip to Trixie. From the middle of the clip she drew a small, but dangerous-looking, stiletto blade. She returned it to its compartment in the clip.

"I spent some time in slam," she said softly. "Rule Number One: always have a shiv somewhere. And there is also this." She took off her glasses, as if to polish them. As she did so, she unwound a length of wire from one of the wings. There was a little handle at each end. Garotte. She passed it to the other woman, who slipped it into her pocket. "I assume you know how to use it," said Elizabeth.

Trixie nodded. "But we are in a castle surrounded by guards and soldiers. We cannot fight our way out with these little things. We are prisoners of the High Table. That is not something to be taken lightly."

"No we can't, but it might be enough to give us a tiny chance, when the moment comes. As for the High Table, today I watched some of them trembling at the thought of John Wick coming after them. I was surprised, let me tell you. Master criminals of the world, sweating to find the nearest exit."

Trixie smiled. "So now you know," she said. "Now you know that ninety per cent of the High Table is a sham. I've heard them bicker like schoolkids over a few dollars and bitch about who gets to sit where. They're so paranoid about one another they won't even have any guards in the room. None if it has really mattered much, as long as the Adjudicators keep the myth going. And until now the Table members have been completely removed from the action. They have become bureaucrats, stuffed with their own sense of importance. But Mister Wick is making it personal. The Bogeyman cometh."

They were both quiet for a while, finishing the meagre meal. Then Trixie said: "Do you think he has a chance?"

Elizabeth considered. "John Wick and whatever allies he can scrape up against an army of thugs, murderers and assassins?" she said. "Yes, I think he has a chance."

**5\. Audentes fortuna iuvat**

1

Wick looked at himself in the mirror. The cosmetics artist had done a good job: his face and hands were evenly covered in dark make-up.

"You know, in America you can get into serious trouble doing this," he said.

"You might look a little bit black but you sound one hundred and ten per cent white," said Cassian. "So say as little as possible."

Wick opened his mouth to speak but then thought better of it. He nodded.

"The High Table has hired dozens of people," put in Akoni. "So you should be able to join them without too much problem. Funny, it is the High Table's desire for more protection that allows their enemy to enter the fortress."

"Ironic," said Wick.

"That is not a word black people use," said Cassian.

"You do not look African," said Akoni.

"If anyone asks, tell them you come from Putney," Cassian suggested.

"Got it," said Wick.

"We don't say that either," said Cassian.

2

Not long after, Wick was sitting in one of the buses being used to take forty hired guns to St Blaine Castle. Ironically – that word again – they had each been given a photograph: it was of him, bearded and with long hair. Kill on sight, said the organiser. There will be a substantial bonus for the one who does it.

They passed through the main gate of the castle and stopped in the courtyard. The organiser said he would take them to the main hall for briefing and allocation of assignments.

Wick had memorised the layout of the castle from the blueprints. As the group moved through the halls he lagged behind. They passed a series of checkpoints and security doors, and patrols of men with automatic weapons and body armour – the professional soldiers of the High Table.

He slipped into the room with the priest's hole. He went to the wall –

A voice said: "You shouldn't be here."

He turned. It was one of the patrols. They had their guns pointed at him.

"Need a piss," he grunted.

One of the soldiers pointed. "Back that way, follow the signs," he said.

Wick nodded and started in the direction the soldier had indicated.

"Fucking amateurs," muttered one of the soldiers as they left the room.

He went back in, and began to search for the catch. He ran his hand along the lintel. Nothing.

He heard heavy footsteps. The patrol was coming back, and he knew he would not be able to fool them again.

He felt his way along the lintel again. Yes, there was … something. Not much more than a small indentation.

The footsteps were closer. Seconds away, no more.

He pressed it. A narrow doorway swung open. He went in and pulled the door closed. It made a _click_.

"What was that?" said one of the soldiers.

"What was what?" said the other.

"I heard a noise."

"Probably a rat. Old places like this always have rats."

"Huh. Yeah, probably."

Wick heard the footsteps go on their way.

He let himself exhale. The tiny chamber – it could not be called a room, there was hardly enough space to stand upright – was totally dark, and smelled as if several things had died and rotted in it. He took out his phone and checked the time. Twenty-six hours to wait. That should be when Akoni made his presentation to the full High Table, although Akoni had emphasised that the time was not certain. The Table called when the Table called.

"A castle full of heavy-gear soldiers guarding the most powerful criminal organisation in the world, and I have a pistol," he muttered to himself. "How hard can it be?"

For a long moment he thought of Helen.

He pulled a cloth from his pocket and began to remove the blackface make-up. If he was going to go out, he was going to go out as himself.

3

Elizabeth and Trixie were again sharing a threadbare meal.

"I can understand why they want to kill you," said Elizabeth. "But I don't see what they have against me. I did a favour for them, telling them about Wick. I was invited."

Trixie shrugged. "You saw the High Table running scared," she said. "They can't let you go and have you tell that story. There's a myth to maintain. But they might not kill you."

"Really?"

"No, a pretty girl like you might be sold to one of the brothel corporations. Slavery, in other words. The sort of thing that make a single-shot execution seem like the preferred option."

Elizabeth stared at her plate. "Oh," she said.

"Tell me something," said Trixie. "You know the woman who runs New York Administration? OC, I think she is known as. Is she, you know, seeing anyone?"

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I … I wouldn't know," she said. "But everyone at Administration is not allowed to have any social contacts. It's a Rule."

Trixie gave a snort. "Rule shmule," she said. "That's just another way the High Table keeps people in line. If trust and honour was as important as they say it is they wouldn't have to resort to threats."

Elizabeth considered. "Maybe," she said. "Hey, does this mean you are thinking about us getting through this? Are you going to tell me that you've been in worse positions than this?"

"Uh, no, this is about the worst I've ever been in. But we are not dead yet. And maybe we have help on the way."

"Help? Who?"

Trixie smiled. "Mister Wick, of course. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?"

Elizabeth thought about it. "When he starts to move, things happen fast," she said.

"Then we should be prepared. Despite our very limited resources."

Elizabeth nodded. "One thing," she said. "OC said that she wondered what you would look like naked."

"Well," said Trixie. "How about that."

**6\. ****Hoc est bellum**

1

John Wick was woken by the silent vibration of his wristwatch. He immediately grunted in pain; every muscle ached with cramp, and he had not fully recovered from his fall from the Continental roof. He stretched as well as he could in the tiny space and listened. As far as he could tell, the room on the other side of the door was empty. But he could hear the murmur of moving voices: roving patrols of High Table soldiers.

He reviewed his mental map of the layout of the castle interior. The High Table meeting was in a large room on the second level; there was a balcony overlooking an enclosed courtyard. His hiding-place was on the first level. There was a security wall of bulletproof glass at the bottom of the staircase, and there would be a guard station near the door. The first level of security. He hoped that the key-card given to him by Cassian was the genuine article.

He took the Glock from its holster, took a breath, and stepped out.

The room was empty.

He left the room and made his way along the corridor. Eventually, he found what he was looking for: a bathroom. He relieved himself and then went into one of the stalls. And waited.

2

In her cell-like room, Elizabeth worked at the lock on the door, using the stiletto knife and the end of her glasses. She had been shown how to pick locks in jail, by a middle-aged woman who was in for aggravated burglary. The lesson had cost her five cigarettes and a French kiss. Worth it. But this lock was an old style and was proving tricky. Eventually, she heard it click open.

By her reckoning the High Table was probably meeting now. Good and bad: it meant that attention was focused there, but it also meant there would be additional guards around.

She eased the door open and peeked through the crack. No-one around. She stepped out and moved to the next room, where Trixie was. For a long moment, she considered leaving her there. _No_, she decided. _Might need her._ She rapped gently on the door.

There was an answer: "Who is it?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Who do you fucking think it is?" she whispered fiercely. She looked around, and saw a set of keys on a hook. She went through them until the door opened.

"Well, you took your own sweet time about it," said Trixie, stepping out.

_Should have left her_, thought Elizabeth.

3

Akoni came through the main door of the castle and went up to Cassian, who was waiting at the SUV.

"No surprises from the discussion," he said. "They have given me three days to prepare my organisation for their takeover and then quietly leave. They thought that that was very generous."

Cassian nodded.

Akoni leaned against the car and lit a cigarette. "Did you know," he said, "that in my country my brother is the Minister for Defence? He is therefore responsible for receiving shipments of military aid, including from Her Majesty's Government of the United Kingdom. Of course, my country being what it is, not all of those shipments go where they are supposed to go."

"Hmm," said Cassian.

"And one of my fathers-in-law is the President," said Akoni. "So, you see, everything operates quite neatly."

"Indeed," said Cassian.

4

Two freelance guards entered the bathroom and started to use the urinals. Wick stepped out of the stall and smashed one of them in the back of the neck. He would be out for hours. The other one received only a sharp blow to the temple. No more than five minutes.

Wick used the belts of the two men to bind the hands and feet of the five-minute guy. Then he slipped out, making his way along the corridor until he was near to the guard station at the bottom of the staircase. It was just around a corner; he could hear their voices.

There was a heavy curtain over a window. He stepped behind it. As hiding-places went, it was not great but, he thought, it only had to last a short time.

A few minutes later there was noise from the bathroom: the guard had recovered and was shouting for help. A number of High Table soldiers and freelancers ran past Wick, heading to the source of the shouts. With luck, thought Wick, that means there will only be one or two men left at the guard station.

He stepped out of hiding and around the corner.

Three. There were three of them. _Goddamn._

He lifted the Glock as they turned towards him. "Hi," he said. "My name is John. Now, if you will toss those guns over here no-one – "

No, these guys were too well-trained for that. Two of them hefted their automatic rifles as the other one hit an alarm button on the desk.

Wick fired, aiming for the gap above the chest armour. Two went down but the third managed to get his gun up. Wick launched himself over the desk, slamming feet-first into the guy. He put the Glock to the man's neck and fired.

Three down. But above the sound of the siren he could hear more voices coming towards him, from both sides.

He put the key-card into the slot. For a long moment, nothing happened. The little light stayed resolutely red.

"When you're ready," he murmured to the device.

Green light. With a hiss the door slid open. He dived through as a shot whistled past him. The door closed, stopping several more bullets. He turned and fired at the door device on his side, and it came apart in a small shower of sparks.

He ran up the stairs, glancing back to see a troop of soldiers trying to open the jammed door. One of them was already taking an explosive charge from his pack.

Second level. The High Table room was not far. But there was another troop of soldiers boiling along the hallway. He knew that he wouldn't make it.

5

Elizabeth and Trixie were moving along a long corridor when they heard the alarm. They stopped at a corner.

"There is a guard post about ten metres after this turn," whispered Trixie. "There were two men but with all the noise there will only be one now, probably."

"How do you know?" whispered Elizabeth.

"I took notes when they brought me in," said Trixie.

They moved a little further on and, sure enough, there was only one guard.

"Distract him," said Trixie.

"Why me?" said Elizabeth.

"Because you're the pretty one," said Trixie. "Duh. I suggest you undo some buttons on that blouse."

Elizabeth sighed. Then she undid three buttons, let down her hair, and gave the assets a little push up. She removed her glasses and stepped out.

"Why, hello," she said to the guard. "Perhaps you can help me. You see, I'm lost, and I was looking for a strong man – like you – to rescue me."

He stared at her. "You shouldn't be here," he said.

She gave her long hair a flick. "You mean, I can't talk to a fine handsome fellow?" she said. She put her hands on his shoulders, turning him so his back was towards Trixie.

He smiled.

Then the garotte went around his neck. There was a gush of blood as it cut into the flesh. With a grunt, Trixie tightened the cord.

He went down with an agonised gurgle, spitting blood.

Trixie looked at Elizabeth. " 'A strong man to rescue me'?" she said. "Puh-leez."

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" said Elizabeth.

6

Even from outside they heard the siren.

Akoni stubbed out his cigarette. He took out his phone and punched in a number.

"Now," he said.

Twenty seconds passed. Thirty. Akoni lit another cigarette. Suddenly there was an explosion at the main gate, as a heavy rocket-propelled grenade hit.

"One thing the British do well, aside from musical stage-shows, is small-arms weapons," said Akoni to Cassian. "I will have to pick up a gift for my brother to thank him. Some good cigars, perhaps."

Several SUVs came smashing through what was left of the gate, with men inside shooting at the guards.

From the other side of the castle grounds there was another explosion.

"Ah, that will be the Jamaicans," said Akoni.

7

There was only one way for Wick to go. He ran up the staircase onto the third level. It would give him a few moments, as he was out of sight of his pursuers. They would not know where he had gone, so would have to check every room. Seconds, no more.

"This was not part of the plan," he muttered to himself.

**7\. ****Fac fortia et patere**

1

When he reached the third level he ran into a large room, closing the door behind him. It was the old-fashioned type with a heavy plank that acted as a bar, and he lifted it into place. The guards would not be able to shoot it open but they would not take long to rig an explosive charge.

He ran to the balcony and looked over. The room where the High Table was meeting was on the second level, below the room next to him. He could see the balcony but it was certainly too far to jump and there was no way to climb down.

There was a balcony for the room next to him. In the courtyard below there were three helicopters parked.

He looked around the room he was in. There was a display of old suits of armour with the knights' weapons, separated from the rest of the room with a rope. And there were ropes tying back the curtains as well. He did a quick mental calculation. Might be enough. Maybe.

He collected the ropes and started to tie them together as soldiers began to hammer on the door. He tied one end of the rope around the handle of a battle-axe from one of the armour suits and returned to the balcony.

The balcony of the room next to him suddenly seemed like a long way away. He took a deep breath and threw.

The axe bounced off the stone railing. He hauled it up and tried again. Same thing.

The hammering on the door had stopped. Which meant that the soldiers were getting ready to blow it. They might not be sure that he was in this room but they were being systematic in their search.

He threw again. This time, it caught on one edge of the railing. It did not feel very secure but he was running out of options. He climbed onto the edge of the balcony and tried to not look down.

The door blew.

He launched himself into space.

2

"I was not expecting to escape into a small war but I suppose we may as well take advantage," said Trixie, as she and Elizabeth ran through the chaotic hallways.

"Do you know who these other guys are?" said Elizabeth.

"No, but the High Table has many enemies, and some of them are smart enough to launch an attack when attention was focused on Mister Wick."

They came to the top of a staircase that led to the main door. At that moment, one of the attackers fired a rocket-propelled grenade into a nearby group of High Table soldiers. It exploded with a roar. Elizabeth was knocked backwards by the concussion and Trixie went tumbling down the stairs.

3

He was almost at the lower balcony when the axe came loose from the railing above. For a moment he flailed at the air, and managed to grab hold of the railing. The axe with the rope fell past him. With a massive effort he was able to haul himself up.

He straightened his clothes and ran his fingers through his hair. When confronting the High Table, after all, one should look the part.

He took out the Glock and fired at the lock on the door, and then pulled it open. He strode in.

"Hi," he said. "I am John Wick."

There was a rule that no members of the High Table were to carry weapons but obviously not everyone obeyed it. One member jumped up from his chair and pulled a pistol from his jacket. Wick shot him in a single movement. Another man tried to take a gun from a holster strapped to his ankle, and he went down as well.

"Anyone else?" said Wick.

They all stared at him, astonished.

"You," said Berrada from his wheelchair, "have a habit of showing up in the most unusual ways."

The Elder was seated at the head of the long table. "Mister Wick," he said. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

"I want two things," said Wick. "First, you have something of mine. I would like it back."

"Ah," said the Elder. "Your keepsake. Yes, I have it right here. I carry it with me, as a reminder of the nature of trust and memory. And no, I will not give it to you. You will just have to kill me – "

Wick shot him. In the head. The Elder of the High Table fell back, dead.

Wick went to him and searched the body until he found his wedding ring. He put it onto the ring finger of his right hand.

"And the second thing?" said Berrada.

"To be left alone," said Wick. "I want your word that you will not come after me or any of my friends. Ever. If you cannot give me that I will kill you now, one after the other. I have enough bullets for everyone."

The surviving members of the High Table looked at each other. Several of them glanced at the door. And realised they would not make it.

"Very well," said the woman who had been sitting next to the Elder. "You have the word of the High Table."

Wick nodded. "Then you may go," he said. "I suggest you do so quickly. And make for those helicopters down below."

There was a scramble for the door. In a few moments, Wick was alone. "Not what they pretend to be," he murmured to himself.

4

Trixie, bruised from her fall down the stairs but otherwise unhurt, got up and looked around. There was still fighting going on but the focus was moving away from the castle into the grounds. There was no sign of Elizabeth.

She went out through the main door and up to two men leaning against an SUV, smoking. There was another SUV, probably one that had carried some of the attacking force, next to them, its doors open.

"I assume," she said, "that you are the people responsible for this mess."

"You assume correctly," said the one in the more colourful suit. He offered her a cigarette, which she took. He lit it for her.

A helicopter passed over them. Another was not far behind. They could hear the third one lifting off.

"That will be the High Table, hightailing it to a minimum safe distance," said Trixie. "Pity we can't do something about it."

The tall guy pulled something from the back of the SUV. "There is this," he said. "But I am not familiar with this sort of weapon."

It was a Stinger heat-seeking missile.

"Give it here," said Trixie. She pushed various buttons and lifted it onto her shoulder.

The third helicopter passed over them. Trixie aimed the missile. It made a beeping sound, and then a solid tone. She pulled the trigger.

The missile leaped out of the casing and towards the helicopter. It hit, and the helicopter went up in a gust of smoke and flame. The remains spiralled to the ground.

Trixie threw the casing aside. She glanced at the fiery ruin. "Motherfuckers," she muttered.

Wick came up to them. "Adjudicator," he said to Trixie.

"Mister Wick," said Trixie. "Actually, it's ex-Adjudicator now. Thanks to you. Prick."

He smiled. "Don't mention it," he said.

"You might like to know," she said, "that your pretty friend from Administration is still somewhere inside. We were together but we got separated. I last saw her at the top of the stairs."

Wick started. "You mean Elizabeth?" he said.

"Yes, I believe that was her name."

Wick started back to the castle entrance.

"John," said Cassian.

Wick turned towards him.

"John," repeated Cassian. "The situation remains volatile. We should go."

"Yes, we should," said Trixie.

"She is here because of me," said Wick. "And she is an innocent."

He headed off.

Akoni looked at Trixie. "I have no idea who you are," he said. "But would you like a job?"

Trixie considered. "I don't think so," she said. "But I could use a lift."

Akoni nodded. "To where?" he said.

"New York," said Trixie.

5

Wick made his way into the castle. It was nearly empty, although there was the sound of gunfire from outside. He went up the stairs, drawing the Glock.

"Here, Mister Wick," said a voice.

Berrada. He was at the end of the hallway, out of his wheelchair, balancing on the cast on his leg. He was holding Elizabeth in front of him, as a shield. His arm around her and a gun to her head.

"I knew you would come back for her," said Berrada. "And I wanted to thank you. With the Elder gone I can move into the big chair. He was an idiot, you know. Thinking he could rule the world from a tent in the desert. A man who made the mistake of believing his own myth. Now, Mister Wick, the gun, please."

Wick held up the Glock and pushed the clip release button. The clip fell to the floor.

"Berrada," said Wick. "When Sophia was going to kill you I stopped her. So you owe me a life."

Berrada smiled. "So I should not kill you?" he said.

"You can pay your debt," said Wick, "by letting the woman go. Kill me if you must but she has no part in this, not really. She is an innocent."

Berrada continued to smile. "Oh, Mister Wick, you really are a fool. Do you really believe all that bullshit about debts and honour and coins and markers and who owes who?" he said. "Yes, I owe you a life, Mister Wick. But I will not repay you. In fact, I will kill this woman as you watch. Exactly because she is an innocent. That will be the last thing you will see before you die. You will know that you were responsible."

Wick saw Elizabeth move slightly.

A stiletto blade dropped out of her sleeve and into her hand.

She rammed it into Berrada's thigh. He shouted in pain, and in his surprise he released his grip on her. She dodged aside.

Wick raised the Glock. No clip.

But one in the chamber.

The bullet went through Berrada's eye and into his brain. He remained upright for a long moment, and then fell back. A pool of blood began to spread.

Elizabeth stared down at the body. Then she kicked it.

She looked at Wick. "I, for one, am not surprised," she said.

He smiled. "Let's go," he said.

**8\. ****Spectemur agendo**

John Wick and his dog entered the lounge of the Continental. It was three weeks since he had returned from London.

"John, John, good to see you," said Winston, shaking Wick's hand.

"You too," said Wick. "But I don't know if this is a happy occasion or a sad one."

"My retirement as manager?" said Winston. "Happy, mainly, although not without a little sadness. But I know I leave the place in good hands. Charon will, I am sure, do an excellent job as the New York Continental moves into a more independent role."

"Congratulations, Charon," said Wick.

"Thank you," said Charon, as he gave the dog a pat. "And I might mention that my brother sends his regards. He seems to have settled into in his new job. With a good part of the High Table membership gone there is quite enough chaos to keep him busy."

Wick nodded. "But if you are the new manager," he said, "who will be the concierge?"

"That would be me," said a female voice.

Wick looked around. Elizabeth.

"Very appropriate," he said.

"I have something for you," she said. "I dropped into Administration to wind up the Wick file for good. It is now stamped CLOSED PERMANENTLY. OC wasn't there – apparently she is taking a vacation with someone. So I took the liberty of removing something from it."

She handed him an envelope. He looked inside. It was a photograph. Of Helen.

He stared at it for a long time. Then he turned away, and brushed a tear from his eye.

"Is it over?" said Winston.

"Yes," said Wick. "It's over."

END AND AMEN


End file.
